Luigi Mario Goes to War
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Where did Luigi learn to use his Final Smash? Tired of being in his brother's shadow, he turns to the one person who may be able to help and then some. Join him on his impressionistic journey as he struggles to forge his own path in life. Beware of OOC.


**Disclaimer :** All characters and places belong to Nintendo, Sony, and Sega, ©2004-2008.

_A/N: A random, trippy oneshot with a loose plot, but the premise is pretty basic. One of two yarns I plan to post. It's a little different than how I imagined, but the outcome is a lot than when I first started it months ago. In fact, this is the fastest I churned out a story since August._

_Anything else? Well, the title is based off the name of a movie which I can't recall, but goes along the lines of 'Goes to War'; there's a surprise cameo from Resident Evil; and Ike 'fights for his friends.' Yeah, that Ike, from Nin10doh! That's about it._

* * *

**Luigi Mario Goes to War**

* * *

I've always been in his shadow. Standing there. Sitting there. Watching, waiting from there.

I've seen him do all sorts of things. Rescue people. Rescue the Princess. Find Bowser and beat the shit out of him. Get hailed as a hero and a thankful kiss from Peach, maybe have some of that strawberry cake he likes so much.

(We all know it's a lie.)

He's everything you can think of. An idol. An icon. A hero. A villain. People love him and people hate him. Others fear and others awe. They dress in red hats and blue coveralls, carry hammers, mushrooms, a Fire Flower. Put on fake mustaches, white gloves bought at fifty cent stores and shout _Let's-a go!_

He's a legend. A myth. A fabrication. Yarns are spun and word is spread. He's eight feet tall with fists made of iron. Whatever he touches crumbles to dust. Pounding his hammer to the ground ruptures mountains and sinks islands. One look in his sky-blue eyes and he'll steal your soul.

He's awesome. He's grand. He's cool. He's strong. He's quick. He's happy. He's proud. He lives. He loves. He's fun, friendly, ambitious, determined, brotherly and family.

I don't like it.

I don't like it one bit.

I get nothing in return. Nothing for my efforts, no matter how big or small. To them I'm the younger brother. The other Mario. The third wheel. The guy who's afraid of ghosts. The guy who's infatuated by Princess Daisy. The guy who's nervous and cautious. The guy who's not like him.

Not like Mario.

Never like Mario.

'Cause I'm different. 'Cause I have flaws. 'Cause I forge my own path and walk on it.

It angers me. It disgusts me. It hurts me.

It hurts a lot.

I wish they'd know me for _who I am_ and not _what I am_. I wish they'd know me more than the younger brother, the other Mario, the third wheel, the guy who's afraid of ghosts, the guy who's infatuated by Princess Daisy, the guy who's nervous and cautious, the guy who's not like him, not like Mario, never like Mario.

What was that saying? I am me, therefore I am?

Bah, whatever.

A part of me wonders why I bother thinking this deep. The part of me that wants to say _Screw off, I'm my own person_ to all the hypocrites and skeptics. The part of me that flashes a one-finger salute at sameness and gives it the cold shoulder. Why change things? Be like Mario. Be like your older brother. Always be like Mario.

But no. That's not what I want.

That's not what I need.

I want me. I want to be myself, like myself, and always myself.

I want to be Luigi Mario, the Guy Who Walks His Way. The Guy Who Shouts "I Am!" At The World. The Guy Who Is Himself.

If only it was that simple. I made too much of impression during the first two seasons. And this one, the Brawl season . . . .

What do I do? How do I change? How do I turn over the firm ground that is opinion? How do I . . . .

Fuck.

This isn't gonna be easy.

* * *

So lessee . . . . How do we do this, Luigi? How do we make the crowd awe at our presence? How do we instill fear and hot-blooded manly tears in their hearts? How do we inspire the multitudes to be like the Green Wonder?

Hmmm.

We could do jobs. Lead a band of traders through the ominous expanse of Darkwood. Take out some nasty bandits and open the road to Bowerstone. Get rid of a ghost that's haunting the Oakvale coastline. Kill Giant Beetles and Hobbes disrupting a peaceful afternoon.

Maybe we can make money. Earn a bag of gold as a blacksmith forging blades. Or a woodcutter to make furniture and build houses. Serve and slide beer mugs as a bartender.

Perhaps we can take up a career. Be a bounty hunter and free slaves trapped in Wraithmarsh. An assassin slaying tax lords and backstabbing civilians. A Shadow Worshipper sacrificing Temple of Light monks and your spouse for fast cash----

Wait a minute.

Luigi Mario, what the hell are you doing?

Get that XBOX360 out of your ass and start working!

(Seriously, we got to stop playing Fable . . . .)

* * *

The first Brawl fight begins in a few days, and already there's talk about what the Final Smashes will look like. From what I see, some look clever. Fantastic. Yoshi sprouts silver wings and flies around the battlefield shooting fireballs as a Super Dragon. Bowser goes Giga and wreaks almighty hell. Olimar enters his ship and summons monsters from the far reaches of space.

Some are beautiful, dazzling. Peach dances and sways her opponents asleep with heavenly music and ripe fruit. Zelda calls forth her bow and shoots a single Light Arrow. Pikachu rolls here and then and zips about, stinging wayward combatants with its Volt Tackle.

Some are . . . just ridiculous. Kirby, being the little pink cannibal that he is, sucks us up as brunch in this big pot and blows it up afterward. Wario becomes Wario-Man and causes mayhem (lunacy) after taking a bite of garlic. King Dedede (dee dee dee!) brings his Waddle Dees and Gordos to the fray and stirs up his Big Gay Dance. (Whoop-di-do.)

The rest are fun to watch.

Mario has a big-ass fireball that he charges and lets loose.

Me?

I got nothing.

Nothing to impress. Nothing to wow. Nothing to stun. Nothing to make 'em piss their pants or have the screaming shits.

Wonderful.

That's kinda the disadvantage I have that Mario doesn't. I'm not as strong as he is. Not as creative as I want to be. It's that sort of imagination that makes his fireballs and fighting style pack a punch. I'm too loose, sloppy, and full of myself to get the whole shebang.

I go where the wind takes me.

I bloom when the flowers bloom.

But damn, do I have crap talent.

What can I do that no one else has done before? There are Ike and Link's combo attacks; Fox, Falco and Wolf have their Landmasters (the same Final Smashes, which I find very unoriginal); Zelda, Samus, Lucario and Snake use projectile weapons. Yoshi, Wario, Bowser and Sonic utilize powerful transformations; and the others have their own unique repertoire.

Size growth, transformations, music, sleep, weapons, vehicles, fire, food, swords, electricity, PSI, energy, jet packs, goddesses . . . .

What do I have?

No freaking clue.

Keep thinkin', man.

* * *

And I do think. Long and hard and looking very, very constipated. I think of how I'll want to fly, how to spread my silver wings to their full expanse and take that one step off the edge of nowhere, into eternity. Beyond infinity. Beyond zero.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I bet it'll be a magnificent view, soaring above the world. Over ice-capped mountain ranges. Shimmering lakes. Ribboning rivers. Cascading waterfalls. Luscious emerald popping every which way as far as the horizon. Volcanoes discharging hot molten lava. Winds tumbling along flat desert land in the chilling grip of night. Ice weeping tears as it sails across the seven seas. Numerous trees trading arcane secrets in hushed tones. Clouds drifting in euphoric stillness.

Beautiful.

Absolutely beautiful.

The sun peeks from the edge of tomorrow and delivers oneness to a brand new world in blazing, empirical glory.

_Amazing._

But then I realize there's nothing after the sunrise. Nothing after the beginning.

The pages are blank.

Ink colors my gloved fingertips.

What now?

We fill the pages, that's what.

But first, I have to go take a toke.

* * *

_No,_ you say, shaking your head in disbelief. _Seriously? You, Luigi Mario, do drugs?_

Not just drugs, my friend. I roll up doobies for a living. Really do. All the other drugs out there are a sack of bull. Never was into them. But marijuana . . . Gods, I love it. The stuff's great. Gets me in my best mood. Swanky. Funky. Philosophical. And a tad morbid.

It comes and goes now and then.

So who do I turn to?

The one person who's least expected to have a drug addiction.

* * *

Evening's setting in. Sun's just about gone. Crickets are chirping away and the locusts are conversing with their mating calls. It's not as humid as it was in the afternoon, but it's still a bit stifling.

Doesn't stop me from pounding on the door.

"Ike," I say. _Pound, pound, pound._ "Ike. Open up. It's me, Luigi." _Pound, pound, pound._

I stop knocking and wait. Place my hands on my hips and stare at the warped, aging whorls in the wood. Burning holes. Whatever kills time.

Five minutes pass. I knock again.

"Dammit, Ike, open up. I don't have all day, y'know."

I wait a bit more. Tapping my foot on the cobblestone. Adjusting my gloves. Fix my hat.

What a lazy ass.

Finally, the door opens. Just a crack. An azure iris peers from the gloom inside. "Wha' you want, man?" His voice slurs.

I sniff. It reeks of body odor and sweet ganja. I can deal with it. "You got any more?"

He shuffles his feet. Shoots furtive glances left and right. Sizes me up like a hungry animal (I can never get used to that). Mumbles to himself. It takes a while for him to get the words out. "Yeah, man. I've a bunch left."

"In the cabinet?"

"Yeah."

"And the bong?"

"Dude, I went OCD on _everything_. Stop dwaddlin' an' get inside."

Alright then.

I enter and he closes the door behind us. I'm hit with a strong, hell, almost visible wave of smoke fumes and the wheat scent of alcohol. There's a fog embracing the circle of colored beanbags drifting eerily. A stool sits in the center, bearing the treasured contents: an open bag of cannabis, some paper, a lighter, empty liquor bottles and the bong. All orderly from biggest to smallest.

What a bastard.

He slaps my rear end and sends a fatal glare at me. "What're you waitin' for, dammit? Sit the fuck down."

I smirk. Heh. Yes, Master.

Seconds later we're seated on the beanbags. Ike rolls up the doobie, snatches the lighter. He curses that it won't light, but several clicks later a tiny spark coughs to life. Brings it to the makeshift cigarette and inhales sharply, deeply. Holds it in for one, two, three, four, then exhales through the nostrils.

He smiles dreamily. "That th' bes' shit. Here, Brother. Share mah sent'ments." He hands over the doobie. I take it and give it a couple puffs for good measure before I suck it all in and kick back. Try to hold it longer, but the tickle in my throat makes me hack more than one lung.

Ike laughs, his pitch high and uproarious.

It's my turn to glare. Okay, so I don't always get toked. Not as much as I used to. Big deal. At least I don't inhale the whole thing like Red Eyes does.

"Man up, Luigi! Should be more like yer brother! Bet he'd outlast the both of us!"

My grip on the cancer stick tightens. A frown mars my face. What kind of person do you take me for, Ike of Crimea? What. The hell. Do you take. Me for?

I am not my brother. I am not Mario. I am not his younger brother. I am not the third wheel. I am not like Mario. And I never will be like Mario. Never. Ever. EVER.

Gods, do I want to shove this cig down that blue-haired bastard's throat.

Instead, I click my tongue and fork it over in his waiting hand. He grins, puts the thing to his lips and sucks, sucks, sucks.

(I need a drink.)

* * *

But despite my inner conflicts, I talk to him. Between rolling up and passing joints, pouring hard liquor straight from the gallon and knockin' 'em back in strong, stinging shots, I tell him everything. It went on for the rest of evening, well into the night, but I'll give you the load down:

"Ike, man, I need help. Give me some ideas."

"I'll give you an idea."

"Fuck you. I need something for a Final Smash. Kickass, badass, dumbass, what-an-ass, I don't care. What should I do?"

There's a soft _thwump_ coming from the beanbag as Ike cuts the cheese. He sniggers and snorts laughter in his hand. "How's zat?"

"Stay away from Wario. End of story."

A couple joints in and empty bottles and shot glasses later:

"Green's awesome."

"I know."

"Is the most awes'mest color I ever saw."

"I know."

"Red sucks."

"Blue BLOWS!"

"Do I ev'r!"

When the bag's empty and all the beer's gone:

"Gon' take ah piss."

"Don't fuhget t' shit."

Yeah, I don't get it either.

* * *

What I do get is that right when I zip down my fly, I pass out face-first into the bushes. Drop hard and fast.

Time to rave.

* * *

I sit in the shadows, watching with glazed eyes and a fog clouding my mind. Nothing encompasses me except the darkness. Still, complete, utter darkness. Not the bad sort of darkness, mind you. It was just . . . there.

And then the strobe lights kick on.

The _oonch-oonch-oonch_ of heavy industrial techno makes its grand entrance. Orgasmic. Heart-pounding. Thrumming. Breathtaking.

In front of me, a woman dances to the beat. Shakes her hips. Spreads her arms in mesmerizing patterns. Claps her hands. Lifts her legs at high, painful angles. Spins around and points in random directions.

She looks familiar. I can't tell because of the strange green glow radiating off her body.

(Damn, would I like to tap that.)

(Shush, you!)

I get to my feet, walk over and reach out. Want to touch her, turn her around--

Holy crap.

"Daisy?"

"Do the Safety Dance!" she exclaims happily.

The next thing I know I'm on the floor, clawing at my hair, twitching and gobbling like a turkey.

For some reason, Safety Dance sounds SO wrong.

* * *

"Oi. Wake up, mate."

Somebody's shaking my shoulder.

"Wake up."

I groan and crack my eyes open, but then close them because the moon's hitting me square in the face and it fucking HURTS. My head's roaring. My tongue's full of cotton. My stomach's aching.

Why can't I remember anything?

"Oi, mate. Got somethin' fer ya."

I open a single eye and, through its narrow slit, I can decipher a man swathed in a black cloak and an arm wrapped in bandages. Blank white orbs stare into my indigo from a drawn hood.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"M'name's not important," he says. He has a thick Australian accent. He repeats, "I got somethin' fer ya."

Stupidly, I answer: "Huh?"

"Here." He leans down and puts whatever he's holding into my palm. A glance at it shows it's . . . a bottle of aspirin?

"The fuck--?"

"Y'all need it, mate."

"Oh . . . ."

He pokes a finger to my chest. "Keep it safe, mate. Fight wit' yer heart. Fight th' Negative Zone."

. . . Negative Zone?

The man stands up and flips me a salute. "See ya 'round at the Tournament." He says tournament as _torn-a-ment_.

"Who are you?" I ask one last time, just as he's about to leave.

He squints his eyes up in an odd way of smiling. "Just a friend." He puts his back to me, enters the forest. And then he's gone.

(I don't see him until after my match, when Brawl season's in full swing.)

* * *

At dawn, as I'm puking my guts into the river, I come to the decision that I'll never touch another doobie or drink 'til I'm smashed ever again.

But now I know what I can do about my Final Smash. X marks the spot, and I'm digging for it. Though I'll be spending the rest of today recovering from this massive hangover.

No worries. I've got tomorrow. And aspirins. Thank God for aspirins.

* * *

But the day finally comes where I diverge from the story of Mario Mario and forge my own legacy. Not as the younger brother, the other Mario, the third wheel, but the guy who's afraid of ghosts. The guy who's infatuated by Princess Daisy. The guy who's nervous and cautious. The guy who's not like him. The Guy Who Walks His Way. The Guy Who Shouts "I Am!" To The World. The Guy Who Is Himself And Always Will Be Himself.

The Guy Who Is Luigi Mario, the Green Wonder.

Fighting Mario in the Delfino Plaza is a blast. I've never felt such a thrill rush in my veins, nor have I ever heard my heart pound so madly in my ears. For the first time in God knows how long, I'm happy to be myself.

I'm happy that I am I.

I am me, therefore I am.

Breaking open the Smash Ball, a fiery glow encases me. Raw power, pure energy and limitless will surge throughout my every pore and extremity. The need to be strong is too great to be ignored.

Mario charges at me, fist reared and burning with scarlet fire.

I stand my ground. Feet shoulder-width apart. Posture straight and firm. Muscles loose, ready to take action.

He strikes--!

I grin and unleash my hidden ability.

_"Negative Zone!"_

You don't know it, Mario, but the look on your face is absolutely _priceless_.

Sweet dreams, bro. See ya at the Victory Circle.


End file.
